Murder
by The Harper
Summary: What if Guy had accepted Marian's offer and killed the sheriff? A short look at Guy as he goes through the motions; and Marian as she grows more desperate. Guy/Marian.


**Murder**

It must be easy, he supposed without pause, when she asks him. What would it be, to drive just another blade of steel through another worthless body – it is almost so easy that he laughs (that edge of desire still tight in his mouth). His hands are scarred and strong, and the only resistance he would meet would be that of brittle bone and yielding flesh. It would be so easy, but –.

A murder for a pretty face (he says he loves her, but he isn't sure he means her well). What could she have done – her little body trapped in that scrappy dress, and her soul in that weary shell?

He can love her all he wants (he can put on his mask of good, knightly crusader) and stand tall on his blackened castle turrets, but when the cloaks come away, and she stands before him putting her heart on that tarnished platter – he has never been more afraid. He could admire her from afar, but up close, she frightens him. He stares at her for a long time, with the air of a lost traveller consulting a map of the universe.

There is so much he wants to take – he wishes he were safe again, with her pushing him away like an unwanted suitor once more.

She looks up at him (she is chained like a circus dwarf, but still so proud), and those eyes dare ask him questions he knows she is too good, or too arrogant to speak aloud. He thinks it is because she cannot spit out her heart – like she spits hurtful words.

(But she already did, remember? And she might as well have cut it open for him to taste; then laid out the knife and fork like prizes.)

She steps closer, and for that brief flicker where she pulls her eyes from his, he can see her trembling lips and her hair the colour of dampened wood curling beneath the neck of her dress, clinging to her skin with cold sweat. And then her eyes are burning again and he notices nothing else. Her head cocks inquisitively like a deer asking the predator's preferred meal. Her lips open – she is about to say those words again; those ugly, hateful and sullied words that do not belong in her virgin mouth. (_Kill him for me_, whispers the devil's voice in his head.)

_But what is your promise_, he wants to shriek; and lay his dead and empty body before her feet. Instead, he only has courage enough to turn from her – the door whispers cowardbefore it is splintered and locked. Outside her room, he can breathe easier, and his heart isn't choking him. He leans against the black stone corridor – caresses the leather of his sword and scabbard, runs his hand over the scar on his arm and tries to control the tremors that haunt his body like her disappointed reminder. (She was the one that gave him that scar – and he has never complained, nor thanked her.)

Each step he takes is leaden with augur. He hears nothing but the steady rhythm of her words inside his mind (they urge him on, and although he is disgusted, like a dissonant song he hears it over and over). He imagines himself crying phantom tears, her fingers pressing into his hand, and her eyes filled with phantom love.

This must be the feeling of the executioner to the gallows – that strange mixture of duty and guilt and morality, hanging overhead like a sultan's silk palace. He shudders briefly, the sky is darkening outside, and soon the dawn will approach and bring with it fear, plans and lost opportunities. He must strike now, if at all; the iron was hot, warmed by his sweaty, pulsing hands. He is ready (he does not whisper prayers because they require belief) – all he has now is her (the half empty eyes that slide past him and her never-quite-there promises).

The door's wood is pale and soft, and gives way easily. The slip of his blade is as silent as humming bee's wings. His footfalls are silent – but the other man whirls around like he has been expecting him. There is a flare of anger (but not a trace of betrayal) as he says: _she will pay a pretty penny for my head_. And he replies languorously:_ more than that … you always taught me to be merciless_. Expressionless, he tells himself, dare not hope.

He tries to stifle the animal cry that is yapping at his throat, and the grunt of pain that is drawn from the other man. The other man is frail: older than his impregnable, black overcoat suggests; his limbs are long and thin as twisted copper cables, the top of his skull is thin like rusted metal and his feet kick uselessly when he is overpowered. It is as simple as sin to drive sharpened steel through that feeble and convulsing neck. He doesn't stop until the blade is driven deep into the dust-covered floor – only an inch of silver gleaming beneath the hilt. He hastens to leave before the blood is able to soak through his outer garments, and into his boots.

It wasn't easy: (it turns in circles) life always life, and murder always death (whatever price is paid).

Down that corridor again, his mind disentangled itself from his act, and he struts like an actor giving a last performance. He kicks through the locks on her door, letting the folds of his clothes swirl dramatically. His rhetoric dies sickly on his lips when he sees her. She is standing on a stool – she is half dressed – her ragged clothes spun into a hangman's noose. She looks at him, devoid, and says softly: _you may have me now_. The stool quivers as if at a precipice.

When her body is cold, he lays her on a white sheet and takes her place at the gallows.

* * *

**A/N:** I started watching the third season of Robin Hood, and couldn't resist another look at what would have happened if Guy had accepted Marian's offer at the end of season two - it's a little grim (but hey, how much worse can it really get?).


End file.
